


Can't keep it up

by boolam



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Emotions, Ew, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, empath!mickey, healer!mickey, immortal!frank, listen theres a lot of words but basically nothing happens, really gay symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21704359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boolam/pseuds/boolam
Summary: A flip of a coin; from just a scratch to fatal injury.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich & Frank Gallagher
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	Can't keep it up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadlymilkovich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlymilkovich/gifts), [iamthececimonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthececimonster/gifts).



> obviously inspired by deadlymilkovich and iamcecimonster's superpowers au, go to their works by pressing the links at the start of the work
> 
> dmsw - deadlymilkovich's superpowers work  
> csw - ceci's superpowers work
> 
> check them out if you havent before, this was real fun to write :)))
> 
> all mistakes are mine, posted in a bit of a rush

[dmsw](https://www.instagram.com/p/B5tWNeMHHWp/?utm_source=ig_web_options_share_sheet) [csw](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686386)

* * *

“Mickey, my boy!”

The confusion was tumbling around his head a lot at the feelings bubbling in his gut, already able to tell they weren't his, nor anyone he could think of off the top of his head. He was in a dingy spot, making his way towards the shitty coke dealer on the corner building who owed money to Iggy. Most of his brothers were out of town, Mandy wouldn’t come near this place in a hazmat suit, nor would most of the Gallaghers.

He felt like he was about to vomit. The proximity triggered cocktail of poorly correlating emotions churning his gut was  _ putrid.  _ It reminded him of Terry on bad nights; strong emotions addled by  _ lots  _ of booze. Fear and anxiety somehow mixed with confidence, anticipation, interest, one trying to trump the other in moves that made Mickey’s stomach do uncomfortable flips.

Though, he’s pretty sure the smell hit him before any of the emotions. 

“The fuck do you want, Frank?” Mickey looked on in disgust at the drunk hobbling towards him, but it was a rhetorical question. Gallagher Numero Uno was clutching desperately at the inside of his thigh, face pale as the injury bled and left a trail down the sidewalk and the snow. Whatever got him probably at least nicked the femoral artery, you couldn’t bleed that much from just a light flesh wound. 

“M-Mikhailo Milkovich!” Frank fawned with a spark in his eye and a stumble in his slurring, but Mickey felt not a single tinge of admiration in the emotions wafting off Frank in waves, even with how good Frank was with faking it to the top. He shivered, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket, subtly clenching his hand over his abdomen at the dull ache. He felt livid at having the tiniest semblance of connection to Frank, to being able to feel the infuriatingly confusing shit Frank feels. 

“Sodomiser of my bastard kin, son in law, kind mystic healer - what a coincidence running into you!!” All but one word in that sentence was bullshit, which they both knew. Mickey cringes remembering just  _ how  _ Frank knows that Mickey isn’t the one doing the sodomizing, but he remains tight-lipped, knowing that Frank is most likely making some sort of attempt at getting on his good side. Mickey doesn’t fully understand how ‘son in law’ would do that but it’s Frank, you don’t always know. 

“Not healing you, Frank. If fucking anything you thinking that I would makes me want to bash your head in more.” Mickey gave a humorless smile, turning around to keep walking.

“Oh, for fu-” Frank huffed and groaned in frustration, treating it as a chore having to limp after Mickey with determination. “Come on! It’s barely even a scratch, you’ll be through it in no time!”

“Not happening, Frank.”

“I’m dying! I could bleed to death!” A flip of a coin; from  _ just a scratch  _ to  _ fatal injury. _

“Mmm no, you couldn’t.” Mickey wonders how many schmucks have actually fallen for Frank’s  _ I’m dying, Lord Jesus, save me  _ act. A few ragers at the Alibi, money flying, shows that insurance was none the wiser sometimes.

“All you kids are ungrateful pests these days! What would Ian say if he knew you left me to  _ bleed?”  _

That got Mickey to turn on his heel, smile predatory on his lips. Frank saw that he’d probably made a mistake and stopped in his tracks to turn around, trying pathetically to quickly hobble back the way he came. Mickey caught up to him with a brisk pace, slinging his arm around Frank’s neck and reveling in the pained groan Frank let out at being dragged the extra few inches to being eye level with Mickey. Mickey grinned at the foreign body of fear gurgling in the pit of his stomach.

“Dunno, Gallagher.” Mickey fished a cigarette out with his free hand, shoving it into Frank’s bloody fingers to hold while Mickey lit it. Mickey took it back, the white paper now splotched with red prints, inhaling it deeply and blowing it into Frank’s eyes. “Probably some shit like  _ hey Mickey, thanks for not handing out freebies to my deadbeat, shithead, scheming dad.  _ Which reminds me, didn’t you owe my dad money, Frank?”

Frank went paler, apparently having forgotten that he hadn’t paid in full for an alibi his dad had provided a little less than half a decade ago. He tried to pull a sheepish grin as he laughed nervously: “I’ll uh I’ll get it back to him when he’s out of prison, just...add this to my tab, yeah?” 

“Gallagher…” Mickey tsked, getting riled into a devilishly good mood. There was always fun to be had when dealing with Frank if you knew how to do it right. He wasn’t stupid, you didn’t have to constantly remind him of the bone-breaking to come if he stepped out of line, he just knew it and it was comedy heaven, messing with him. “What’s life in prison really worth to you?”

“Eternity,” Frank replied in a solemnly empty tone. Immortality was one of the rarest superpowers and Frank knew how harsh the government was on people who had it but didn’t lead a cookie-cutter, bland, safe lifestyle. Frank’s been in and out of the rehabilitation systems, usually only using them to get a warm facility to sleep in a place where most people weren’t on the edge of willing his head to explode or his bed to set ablaze (he was glad not all his kids had inherently destructive powers). He’d disappear years at a time, coming back either dirt broke or loaded, most recent well-off wife having passed away or something. He’d come to Terry once cause the FBI was on the cusp of opening a case for the mysterious deaths of literally every woman (some men) Frank’s ever married. 

It felt like sometimes Frank wasn’t aware that he might live forever but his kids were growing every day. 

“Uh-huh. I’d suggest you stay on the Milkovich nice list since pops’d been kind enough to let your debt be an IOU. Yeah?” 

Frank nodded, deflated, but his lip still twitching to get something out, undoubtedly keeping it locked in cause he knew that’d keep him intact longer. Frank might’ve been a deadbeat, but his pension for not dying proved useful in some things the Milkoviches dabbled in. Mickey ruffled Frank’s ratty hair and pinched his cheek, giving a sickeningly sweet smile before he shoved Frank towards the bloody trail. 

“Next time you pull this shit, Frank, I cut off your head and leave it on the street. You better hope someone’s nice enough to reattach it.”

Mickey tried not to laugh at the sharp ping of fear as Frank started hopping instead of limping, trying to get away as quick as possible.

* * *

  
  


Left to his lonesome Mickey was able to grasp at his own feelings, though it felt fickle. 

Some days it got confusing, he couldn’t tell where he ended and another person began. It especially hindered him in younger years, when his mother died was the pinnacle of it all. All around him in the house he was surrounded by depression and anger, strong enough to make his headache and his eyes water, bedridden with how intense the pounding of his heart was, the emotions not mixing. He’d taken to escapism a lot in those years, would sneak out to loiter in abandoned buildings, the school after dark, under the L. Anywhere without people he could  _ feel. _

With how badly his family’s emotions had mauled him he became tender, more sensitive to the emotions of strangers. It only took a minute or so of decent enough conversation for Mickey’s stupid powers to establish a link, take on what the other person was feeling. It was useful in the best of times, making Mickey more cunning and convincing, a better barter when it came to dealing and business was going better than ever. He became a lot more sociable, getting in the good books of most everyone he came by, being able to pander to a person’s mood. But then he’d be alone again, left to stir, and his own emotions felt like the ones that didn’t belong.

With how intuitive he was to others’ emotions, figuring himself out in teen years was even harder than it already had to be. 

He could still remember the confusion, confusion so very strong, overpowering him anytime he’d felt a weird spike of lust or attraction when around other dudes. He could count on one hand how many guys he’s pummeled before he realised those emotions weren’t always just theirs, but his as well. It took a while for him to compare and see that the attraction he felt from girls who liked him was different from the attraction he felt from  _ guys  _ that liked him, that guys made him feel it a lot more intensely even if they were the less emotional sex.

It was easy pushing his sexuality under the rug, pretending he couldn’t separate his own lust from the lust suffocating him when he walked by the closeted quarterback or when Mandy would bring Ian Gallagher around. But pretending couldn’t do you much when someone was as passionate as Ian Gallagher, when his emotions were so strong they got Mickey’s heart beating like the day he lay in bed, surrounded by hurt, mourning and anger.

What they had was the very definition of a whirlwind, both of them in so deep that Mickey was feeling the emotions of  _ Frank fucking Gallagher.  _ It was disgusting, got Mickey’s gut-churning in weird bouts of self loathing and shame, wondering if it was his emotions flipping his skin inside out or if Ian felt everything so intensely that it overpowered any of Mickey’s emotions, that the kid was so madly in love and the second he grew bored of Mickey, Mickey would mirror him. That...was a comforting thought, actually. To think he had an easy out when Ian turned tail.

But in his heart of hearts, he knew that wasn’t the case.

Sitting alone he still felt like he was about to burp out a lump when he thought of Ian.

It didn’t feel right, having this happiness and it being all his own. He hasn’t felt like that before, light and dreamy-eyed anytime Gallagher’s touch drifted, heart fluttering anytime they hug and anytime they beat the shit out of each other. He felt tender again. Everything felt invigorating with Ian, all touches felt like sparks and fighting felt so empowering and freeing, being able to stand on equal footing it never felt like it did with Mickey’s shit-for-brains brothers or POS dad. He’d heal Ian and smile bright at how warm he felt while Ian tended to Mickey’s wounds in whatever ways he could.

All people with pyrokinesis were more lively and passionate, but Ian’s highs and lows feel out of this world. Mickey doesn’t know if the bipolar is to blame for that or if Mickey is romanticizing Gallagher to an unhealthy degree. 

“Ah!!” Mickey cried out once, having to detach himself from Ian’s lips to look down at where it hurt. The sound of sweat sizzling under Ian’s hands was barely heard over their panting, Ian recoiling in fear and deafening guilt when he saw the red, marred handprint he left on Mickey’s bare hip. Dread and panic.

“Mick, fuck, I’m so sorry.  _ Shit-  _ I-I’ll go get ice!” 

Mickey quickly grabbed at Ian, his bicep almost slipping out of Mickey’s grasp with how sweat-soaked the both of them were. Mickey felt weak pulling Ian close again, silent in his plea for Ian to stay, not ready for the cold. Ian was still twitchy with guilt even a minute after the silence, Mickey reaching up to cup his jaw, gently kiss him. 

“It’s fine.” 

Ian prided himself on the discipline he had when it came to his powers, on his accuracy when throwing flames and being able to keep the whole house heated with just the fireplace. Mickey didn’t know how to wrap his head around the fact that he made Ian lose touch. He forgave Ian, if only through a thick layer of confusion.

Then he laughed, saying: “Lucky you weren’t fisting my fucking hair, Army.” Worked fine enough in lifting the mood, Ian’s empathetic pain replaced with admiration and amusement, giving a sheepish grin as he sucked back onto Mickey’s lips, hands tentative in holding Mickey’s cheeks. 

Felt like pressing your face into a radiator. 

“I love you,” Ian said once while they lay under the L tracks, feeling everything shake anytime it went by.

“Kinda fucking knew that already.”

Then Mickey’s view of the tracks was obscured, Ian’s face inches away while he caged Mickey in under him with his arms, looming over him with a smile. It felt good, not hearing anything defensive, Mickey not lashing out at Ian for saying that shit.

“What does it feel like?” 

“Your mushy feelings worming their way into places they don’t fucking belong?” Mickey bit out with a faux scowl, but Ian was still shining bright with a smile as he nodded. Mickey deflated, eyes tittering away for a bit to avoid looking at Ian as he shrugged. “Hard to explain.”

“Try.” 

“Like… Like eating something new, but it’s really fucking good. Fucking mouth ain’t used to it, feels like it doesn’t belong, but hey it’s nice and warm and…” Mickey shut his mouth and turned his head away, realising he was running his mouth, getting away from his original point. He was just describing what Ian’s love felt like,  _ holy fuck.  _ What type of idiot…

“My love feels good, huh?” 

“Ugh, stop saying that.” Mickey groaned, retreating deeper into himself as he frowned. Ian gently cupped his jaw, turning them face to face. Ian brushed a kiss against Mickey’s forehead, looking down at him with soft big eyes. Mickey only frowned deeper at the nervous knot coiling in Ian.

“Do you love me?” 

Mickey’s frown dropped, his body relaxing as he sighed exhaustedly. 

“You got me fucking worried there, dipshit. Don't rile yourself over crap like that.”

Ian was the one to avert eye contact now, sheepish in his expression as he nodded but the nervous energy was still kicking a storm, making Mickey’s skin prickle. He grabbed Ian by the hair, forcing eye contact. 

“Course I fucking do, numbnuts.” It’s the first time he’s admitting it, even to himself, but he doesn’t feel shame or regret when suddenly Ian is free of anxiety, stunned into staring at Mickey. Mickey wasn’t completely sure of it yet, but Ian looking at him like the sun shines out of Mickey’s ass is all it takes to throw doubt into the wind and he suddenly feels lighter.

He thinks maybe it's fine then, that he can drown in double the amounts of love, overwhelmed by his own and hugged by Ian’s, creating something that would become absolutely toxic were it to ever explode. 


End file.
